Waiting On the Fall
by NortheasternWind
Summary: War fails to report in after a mission which should only have taken days. Although Strife is sent to "investigate", he strongly suspects his mission is not a rescue, but an assassination.


Originally this chapter was going to be much longer, or even the entire fic as a giant oneshot, but I stumbled across this while I was looking for something to read other than TAU, and decided to just reach the first feasible cutoff point and then post it. I am making progress on TAU! But sometimes you need to work on other stuff to get back in the mood.

Enjoy for now!

 **Chapter One**

The Four Horsemen did not, generally speaking, require chaperoning. They each held efficiency in high regard, but an investigation would take as long as it took, and if that meant no contact for days and days on end neither the council nor the other horsemen took much notice.

But when days became weeks, and then a month, the Charred Council began to feel it may be prudent to send… reinforcements.

If Death had known of War's assignment he wouldn't have waited for the order. Their eldest brother was fiercely protective of them, and of War in particular since his brush with the Well of Souls, and would have set out at once after War failed to report back.

But Death did not know. He was, as usual, off on his own business, tending to his secrets or perhaps building up his increasingly impressive skillset.

He would be upset to learn what had happened in his absence, Strife thought bitterly, and without satisfaction.

Strife strongly suspected that he had been sent alone deliberately. The council's trust in Death had lessened somewhat of late, and Fury, as yet also unaware of War's absence, could tell their eldest brother nothing if asked. If Death returned while Strife was away, there would be nothing to contradict whatever story the council told him.

War was the youngest of those who turned against the Nephilim. His betrayal had shocked most, who saw him only as a weapon happy to be wielded against any enemy, satisfied as long as he got his share of conflict.

None of them had seen War's unbanked fire, nurtured by constant warfare and punished by those who chafed at that power belonging to one so much younger than they. War had not lived long enough among them to see past their condescension and envy, and as a result he loved their people the least out of all of them.

That same fire did not allow him any master, any liege. He seethed and raged against reins in all their forms, and had been most displeased to exchange the Nephilim for the Charred Council.

They expected Strife to find either a corpse or a traitor.

Well, he would do his best to disappoint them.

"War," a Watcher told him as Glory's hooves pounded at the charred rock, "was dispatched to a craggy and young world with little in the way of life on it except a demonic weaponsmith of growing repute. Sources say his results seem to outstrip what his skill should achieve."

"That hardly seems worth the council's interest, much less my brother's time."

"It really isn't, except that the traffic produced by this demon's growing infamy began to endanger the chances of the realm in question bearing any life in the future. So War was sent to evict him."

"With extreme prejudice?"

"As always." With a black flash the Watcher flitted to Strife's other side, and Glory rumbled unappreciatively at the sudden movement. "He has not been heard from since."

"So in other words, the only useful thing you can tell me is where he went."

"Believe me, Horseman, the council is just as irritated as you are. It should have taken perhaps a day, two at most."

Strife sighed. At least he had a place to start, and a witness to question if the trail went cold. "There is nothing on this world which might have caused War's disappearance?"

"Not that we know of. As I said, there is little of interest to find there, which I suppose is why the demon chose it as his home."

That would leave the demon himself as the cause of War's absence, which Strife had a difficult time believing. No demon with the power to overwhelm War would spend his time smithing. "Then I will take it from here. Alert my sister if I do not return shortly."

"The council doesn't wa-" the Watcher began, too late.

Strife ignored him and spurred Glory on, the blackened realm of the Charred Council falling away around them. In truth, Strife already knew the world to which War had been sent, having been informed by Fury almost a month ago, and if the Watcher had nothing further to tell him then he had no desire to listen to that irritating voice any longer. That, at least, was something that every one of the Horsemen had in common.

The white of the world between realms nearly hurt the eyes, but both rider and horse were used to it: very little could match the brilliance of Glory's golden mane, and they made similar journeys with such frequency that they'd become inured to the light. Where once this ride would have been an irritation Strife now appreciated the peace and quiet it offered. He could not control how long it took, and he was not responsible for the time lost.

He turned his thoughts back to his errand. The idea of something simply overpowering War unsettled him—it was far easier for Strife to believe that his brother had merely been careless, caught off-guard by some threat he had not foreseen, and that recovering him would be a matter of keeping a sharper eye.

…Of course, there was always the possibility that War was not in danger at all, and that his return had been delayed for other reasons. But Strife was not feeling optimistic.

They burst into Creation beside a mountain range some distance away from their destination, to avoid alerting anyone already present. Contrary to the Watcher's report, the world was not completely barren: a light dusting of moss carpeted the ground, giving the rocky vista a slightly green tinge. It was not, however, enough to give the world an atmosphere, although that was hindrance to very few in Creation.

Strife turned his steed to the west, towards the demon's home. There were no existing hoof marks in the dirt before him. Not that he expected to find any: War was far from a fool, but he did prefer a more… direct approach, sometimes. Or perhaps he had merely chosen a different entry point and Strife wasn't giving him enough credit, he supposed.

He came upon the demon's ruined workshop suddenly, after only a few minutes of riding, and a single glance told him that War had probably been here after all. The smoke had cleared weeks ago, probably, leaving only a blackened husk of wood and dark iron, a smear against the dark green moss dotting the ground around it. The most colorful feature of the tableau was the woman standing in the ruins, violet locks dropping in waves down a back turned towards him…

"Fury!"


End file.
